Holding Her

The first time I held herin my arms, I knew exactlywhere I wanted to be.The feeling of her erraticheartbeat, of her hands tuckedagainst my stomachadded to my thoughts of:“She is here.”“This is not a dream.”

I remember pressing heragainst my chest while she sobbedinto my t-shirt, crying becauseshe felt like the worldwas too much for her.I remember her arms around my neckwhen all I wanted to do was screamand break the world apart.I could feel her pull me closeras my anger began to blossom.

The in-sync tempo of our heartbeatsreminded me that the worldcan be just as beautifulas it is cruel and as long as shewas a part of it, the worldwould stay beautiful.

The first time I held her in my armsI knew that I was meant to be there.It was like the final piece of a puzzleclicking into place. An open woundin my heart was stitched byher promise of “I’m never going to wantanyone as much as I want you.”

Holding her is electric,Whether it is the actual static from herfingertips or the shivers down my spinewhen she pulls me close.Holding her is addictive,each time she pulls away I wantto reset the clock and feel the riseand fall of her breathing all over again.Holding her is beautiful.Because it doesn’t matter if it’sthe fourth time or the seventy fifth,they always feel like the first one.Holding her is knowing where I belong.

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Post Script is a magazine written, edited, and produced by the Creative Writing Department of Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. Through our articles, stories, poems, and memoirs, we have shared some of the things most important to us.